


Walking On Eggshells

by CAPSING



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel
Genre: (don't you worry Wade), Accidental Baby Acquisition, Because Drax deserves to be a Dad again, Kid Fic, M/M, Post-Movie(s), Team as Family, The Other Peter, gif warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 13:31:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3730759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CAPSING/pseuds/CAPSING
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You can't always get what you want," claimed The Rolling Stones in 1969.<br/>Too bad Meredith didn't pass on those words of wisdom on one of her mix-tapes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Walking On Eggshells

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Found Family](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2201094) by [fabrega](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabrega/pseuds/fabrega). 



> I've realised the only way I'll finish something I wrote is if I won't leave my post. My computer, that is. It worked. Peeing is for the weak.  
> Inspired by "Found Family" - but this time, they keep the baby.
> 
> Note there is a short part of a graphically violent threat made by Drax- you'll know when you get there, if you don't like those sort of things, feel free to skip three lines ahead.
> 
> WARNING! If you haven't noticed in the tags, for a gif picture in the end.

Thing is, Peter really wants to eat an omelette.

It's more than just wanting to eat it. It's a craving. A passion. A wish. A prayer that burns within him through the years away from home, from memories so distant he wonders if they aren't wisps of dreams that stuck around.

 

The other thing is, eggs are not really that common in space.

(Yondu's face, as Peter describes to him what an 'egg' is – after the translator implant failed to translate – take a slightly different shade of blue. After that, Peter is not allowed to so much as mention the word anywhere on Yondu's ship, or anywhere at all, if he wants to keep his tongue. That night, at dinner, the Ravagers look at each and every bite Peter takes. Three leave the table without touching their plates. Peter shrugs and eats their portions, as well.)

So after twenty years, when he comes across a large obsidian ellipse-shaped object with the texture of a braille paper, he can't help but squeak. And break into a victory dance. And there might've been some tears involved. Manly tears.

 

"My baby," he whispers to it lovingly, pressing his lips against the warm surface.

Peter cheerfully placed the egg in his backpack, going through different recipes in his head. It'll be challenging to find something to replace the cheese with, but onion-substitutes are not that rare, and there's this type of taproot –

He wraps the egg in his jacket so it wouldn't break, tucking it into his backpack, lost in thought.

 

That's probably why he doesn't notice the way it vibrates on his way back to The Milano.

 

                                                                                            

 

As a rule, Peter does not surprise his teammates. With two notorious assassins and a trigger-happy bounty-hunter among them, he doesn't think it's worth the risk.

He makes an exception. Just one exception, at that one breakfast, presenting the egg proudly to watch as his friend's expressions turn horrified.

 

Peter notes, for future reference, not to make any more exceptions.

 

"What!" he claims, not liking the tense silence that settled over the room.

"Peter," Gamora says, voice hoarse. "You cannot be serious."

"What? Is this thing toxic –"

"Thing!" Rocket bristles, a weapon quickly materializing out of thin air and into his hands as he bares his teeth towards Peter, betrayal written all over his face. "You _dare_ – _thing_ , he says – let me _go_ Groot, this terran-scumbag, how could you even think –"

"Quill," Drax says, voice level. His eyes, however, seem to tell that he already planned how he'll kill Peter nine times over. "In what circumstances did you acquire what that is in your hands?"

"Yesterday." Peter answers, desperate to get a read on what's going on, onto why Rocket is hissing at him, secured in Groot's grasp, while Gamora's face close off. Groot's deep, dark eyes look hopefully at Peter, waiting for him to redeem himself from his unknown crime. "On that wrecked ship I went to check out, in the storage room, it was –"

Drax lifts a hand in a thankfully-universal hand gesture, and Peter shuts up.

"What, exactly," Drax phrases his words carefully, "do you think you are holding?"

Four pairs of eyes look at Peter. He looks down at the egg in his hands. It seems to have grown heavier, sending shivers up the muscles of Peter's arms.

"An egg?"

Drax frowns. "The translation-transmitter embedded within me could not decipher the word you have said. Thereby, I conclude you are not aware of the fact you have suggested us all to break our evening fast with the flesh of a child."

"A child?" Peter sputters, before a hysterical giggle escapes his throat. "Drax, man, that's – this is an _egg_. There's nothing _alive_ in there!" He looks around the room, feeling ridiculous as their expressions remain unfairly judgmental. "Guys, it's been left in a wrecked ship for god-knows-how-long, no one sat on it, and even if they did, it's just –"

There's a weird sound.

 

Maybe it's the sound of Peter's dreams breaking before his eyes, as the egg splits cleanly in half, the shell clanking heavily as it hits the kitchen's floor.

 

Peter stares.

"Oh." He says, faint.

"Just for the record. We didn't have those on Terra."

"Noted," Gamora says.

 

(Peter kind of loses his apatite after that.)

 

                                                                                            

As it turns out, "the egg" was some sort of highly-advanced incubator, which Rocket takes down to his lab with a glint in his eyes (and maybe a half-muttered apology to Peter involving a punch to his calf on his way out). Said incubators were rare and very, very expensive, Gamora explained. They could only be used once as a method for reproduction for alien species – (this was the part Peter kind of tuned out) – The used parts, however, can still be sold at quite the profit – (and this was where he tuned back in).

Like a disposable Fabergé egg and a Kinder Surprise all-in-one.

 

The 'Surprise'-theme-of-the-day keeps when it's Drax that takes the thi– _baby_ (why was the universe to intent on creeping him out in so many different ways) from Peter's hands, cradling it in his arms, against his chest, wearing an expression Peter has never seen on him before.

The thi- baby (even if it is a truly repulsive thing, Peter thinks he can categorize it as some-species'-larva-stage) emits a small, pinched sound.

And Drax – Drax The Destroyer, Drax who helped defeat Ronan The Accuser, whose goal is to strangle Thanos with his bare hands, who honestly thinks removing someone's spine is a suitable act when defending one's honour, who cleans daggers he gutted foes with as mediation – that same, very Drax –

– glows.

 

("I am not bioluminescent.")

                                                                                            

After his much needed shower, the result of the gunk he's been covered with, Peter returns to the kitchen. Drax's expression hasn't changed, and he doesn't bother to waste a glance on Peter. Not when he can keep looking at the four-legged worm wiggling against him, wrapped in an old, cozy blanket.

 

"So," Peter starts, trying to come up with a subtle way to approach the subject. "Drax, buddy. Amigo. My favorite shirtless team member by far." He clears his throat. "You know we can't keep it."

"I disagree with your assessment, friend Quill." Drax replies, casual. "There is no such absolute knowledge within my grasp."

"Okay." Peter grinds his teeth. "As the Captain of this ship, I say we can't keep it."

"I say we can."

"Drax –" Peter tries, mind bursting with thousands of incoherent noises, sentences, words. He looks at the hatchling – even somewhat cleaned, it's closed eyelids are still puffy and pink, its spikey-blue plumage sparse against it's speckled, almost translucent skin. It looked sick, maybe even –

"Do you know what it should eat? What it should drink? If at all?" Peter is quick as he puts The Guilt Card into use. "What temperature is best for it? We can't know that, and this – it needs proper care, so how about we'll find the coordinates for the nearest Nova Corps-base –"

"I do."

"You do what?"

"I do know what she needs," Drax says, looking up. "I did this all, before."

" _That's cheating_ ", Peter wants to whine at him. " _You can't play The Dead Family Card. That's not fair."_  

Unfortunately for Peter, he's not Rocket, and he ain't got even a fifth of Gamora's cybernetic-bionic ovaries (or whatever the Zen-Whoberis equivalent of that was). He switches tactics.

"It's not a decision you can just make by yourself." Peter tries to gather his Captain Voice (and if it kind-of-cracks, well, he's alone in a knives-filled-environment, opposing a person who won't break a sweat snapping any part of Peter's body like a wishbone, so there's that.) "Accepting another into the daily life of this ship, and a baby at that – it's going to effect everyone's lives." Peter can barely keep the smugness from his voice.

"We should hold a vote."

 

                                                                                             

They shouldn't have had a vote.

 

"What shall we name her?"

 

Human Democracy was shit and corrupted. Terra was a lousy, backwater planet that didn't even get basic, primitive space travel. That still used disintegrated fossils in their transportation methods. None of their ideas could've been any good (sans Music).

Yondu's questionable methods of leadership make a lot more sense to him, now.

Peter sulks as names are thrown and shot down, many 'Groot's thrown in-between.

 

"Lynjabuen." It's Gamora's first suggestion, breaking what was mostly an argument between Rocket and Drax ( _still holding the thing_ ). Now 'thing' is clothed in some sort of weird striped Onesie Gamora picked in a lightning-quick shopping spree on Wajkldo, the planet in which they unfortunately docked.

(Next time Rocket complains he needs some new gadgets ASAP, Peter will make sure to set the provided coordinates to skip three solar systems to the left.)

"What's that?" Rocket snorts, a punchline on the tip of his tongue.

"Mother used to call me that, when I was little." Gamora's voice is blank as her face. "It's a term – was a term – " she corrects, coolly "– of endearment."

If Rocked wore boots, he'd probably want to shove one into his mouth right now.

 

"I am Groot." Groot comes to his friend's aid, nodding in approval, offering Gamora a wide smile.

"It is a good name," Drax agrees, petting the baby's forehead with the tip of his finger. "It's settled, then."

 

"Can we call y –"

Peter falls back onto the floor as one of the legs of his titanium-enforced chair bends 87 degrees upwards.

Gamora exits the kitchen.

                                                                                             

 

Three solar days after, Lynjabuen opens her eye – the one upon her forehead – for the first time.

"Like a nebula," Peter breathes out quietly to himself.

Which is kind of moot when they're all gathered around a gleeful Drax, and all of his team-mates have super-human hearing.

 

Gamora carries Lynjabuen to her room and locks the door.

Drax prowls The Milano like a caged tiger, pacing restlessly, glancing at the closed door every other minute. Finally, he resorts to his least-violent-coping-mechanism, and sharpens every possible blade on the ship.

 

(The next day, Peter tries making a salad for breakfast.

The knife splits the cutting board in half.

 

That wouldn't have happened with an omelette.)

 

                                                                                            

 

"Would someone _please_ make her _stop_?!"

(Peter likes to gloat.)

"I can't take this anymore!"

(And since Rocket isn't suffering from, say, a major, gaping wound in his abdomen, Peter doesn't feel too bad about it.)

"What are you talking about?" Drax asks, sounding perplexed. Lynjabuen is cradled against his left side while he's reading some – Peter doesn't know what it is, maybe a dictionary? He honestly has no clue what Drax does with a portable reading device. he didn't know he even had one until about an hour ago.

"I have to agree with Rocket on that," Gamora grimaces as she enters what Peter dubs as their living room ("But we are alive in every one of these rooms –" god why such a wonderful pair of pectorals were attached to such a difficult person – and when did Peter start regarding Drax's – the Destroyer, mind you, who can – who _has_ – killed people with his thumb –  worst quality his _communication problems_ –)

"She's been real quiet all this time," Peter says as he looks up from a broken force-field-generator he's trying to fix. Drax shares a look with him (Peter doesn't know what that means but he marks it under 'progress', because he's an optimistic guy).

"Are you sure –"

Gamora and Rocket flinch as one, Rocket pulling at his ears.

"If you won't shut her up _right now, Quill_ –"

"Are you _threatening_ to harm –"

'Shit', Peter thinks. He almost got this stupid thing working again.

 

"Woah! Everyone! Stop!" Peter stands up, a human-buffer between Rocket, who's wavering between looking as if he's in the throes of miserable agony and looking like he's about to commit infanticide – and Drax, four hundred and fifty pounds of muscle pouring out killing intent.

(Maybe there's hope yet for Peter's metaphorical ovaries.)

 

"Drax, no one is threatening anyone. You know that," Peter looks at Drax out of the corner of his eyes, looking for a sign Drax is aware. Something small. A hint. A clue.

When he doesn't find anything, he makes another mental note on his ever-growing list – to get his eyes checked next time they come across a medical personal which looks about 72% not-questionable.

 "Gamora? Care to explain?" Peter kind-of-pleads in her direction.

"Lynjabuen has been crying, ceaselessly, for the past one-hundred and fifty-three minutes." There's a muscle ticking next to Gamora's left nostril. "The noise is most unpleasant."

"I don't hear anything." Peter frowns, confused.

"Neither do I!" Rocket snaps. "I can't even hear myself thinking, behind a locked door, under three pillows and two blankets with my ears plugged! It's driving me nuts, I can't –" he suddenly stops, freezing in place.

"Rocket?" Peter asks, worried. "Rocket, talk to –"

"Thank you," Gamora tells Drax. He has his thick arms forward, pressed together, the baby upon them. His thumbs are placed against her fluttering, closed eyelids. Gamora steps closer to examine her.

"Must be –" she makes a garbled sound, and Drax nods at her and turns back to the couch, reading forgotten in favor of regarding his ward with concern.

"Growing pains," Rocket mutters towards a confused Peter. "She doesn't know what going on, and she's hurting. So the screaming is all she can do." He massages an ear wearily, making his way back to his lab.

"Sounds rough."

"You don't know half of it."

 

(Peter's lame human ears don't hear plenty of things; he thinks they weren't supposed to hear that one, too.)

 

                                                                                            

 

Being a single parent is hard.

Peter knows. Knew it, even as a kid. His mom was great, the best – and she was also constantly drained from working two jobs only to get back home and start cooking dinner, doing the laundry, trying to keep the never-ending dishes under some hold – and still she always asked Peter how his day was, always made sure he knew she cared.

Peter was lucky to have her, even for a short while.

 

And Drax – it's not that Peter doesn't think he's trying, it's that he's not even trying too much – he simpley won't let anyone else near Lynjabuen. It's more than that – he won't let himself take his eyes off of her. Peter understands that, only Drax – Drax doesn't.

Exhaustion creeps upon Drax slowly, growing gradually, like a lazy, insistent vine. The bursting blood-vessels in his eyes colour them with an unhealthy-looking yellowish-tint, while the skin above his ears darkens until it's almost as blue as Yondu's. He lets Lynjabuen out of his sight only when he showers – under the quickest sonic program – before rushing to collect her back from Gamora, the only one he seems to trust with the baby.

 

In just two and a half weeks, Drax becomes sleep-deprived.

Which could've been okay, if not for the lunch in which he almost stabbed a dagger through Groot's brains, if not for Gamora's quick (and admirable) reaction time.

(And did Groot have a brain? Like sure, he was conscious and he had a mind and something resembling neurons, but where was it all settled, and in which forms, Peter wondered. Still seemed kind of rude to bring it up at the time.)

 

"Let go of me!" Drax snarls, pinned to the table. Peter is holding the thi- baby, the baby with the name – Lynjabuen _,_ which feels like she's about to break in his hands and what if he'll drop her her brains would spill all over his boots and _Gamora how about we'll switch, I can handle one maniacal body-builder, no biggie –_

 

"We have to get rid of it!"

"I am Groot!" Groot says, affronted, looking more offended than anything.

"Of what, Drax?" Gamora asks, cautious.

"The guewezzelboot." Drax replies, seriously. "They're a plague, a disease – they can destroy an entire forest in a matter of hours!"

Then he blinks, and looks up at Groot, looking terrified. It looks kind of awful.

"It was about to eat Groot alive."

 

"I am Groot," Groot replies, and strokes the top of Drax's hand worriedly.

"Quill," Rocket whispers urgently into Peter's ears, "I don't think he's been getting enough sleep. If Quentencians don't get at least four solid hours of rest every thirty-two hours, they start hallucinating. And if they get acutely sleep-deprived, they just lose their minds. Literally."

Lynjabuen gurgles, making Rocket wince and dig his claws deeper into Peter's human, meaty shoulder.

 

"I have a tree just like you, back at home," Drax tells Groot airily, eyes glazed over. "It doesn't have hands. But it's a good tree." Then Drax grins, all teeth. "I think you'd like each other."

Gamora looks at Peter, alarmed.

 

 

Turns out he was going to make that switch after all.

 

                                                                                            

They end up in bed.

Peter grumbles something about double entendre under his breath, sour.

Quentencian's normal temperature must be the equivalent of a furnace. He's sweating under Drax's too-tight grip, and his armpits are starting to feel gross. Drax's massive form presses against his chest, making each breath an effort. He can't budge an inch, but he doesn't dare waking Drax up.

Drax can be creepy, but an unhinged Drax is terrifying - and he's certainly more daunting than the prospect of a few bruised ribs.

Now if there was only a way to tell the time, that'd be peachy. Too bad Peter's hands are tucked against his sides, as he's wrapped like a canned baziligioen.

Drax's head is buried against Peter's neck; his breath is steady and soft. If he wasn't crushing Peter alive and making him sweat-out his liver, it probably could've been a fine cuddling session.

 

Peter doesn't notice he's dozing until a sharp gasp snaps him awake.

"Drax?" he asks, trying to sound as reassuring as he possible with his current limited air-intake.

"The baby," Drax says, sounding strained. Peter looks at his face – his eyes are open, unfocused – but almost back to their healthy-white default.  

"The baby's fine. She's safe," He tells Drax, who's unresponsive.

"I promise, Drax, she's as safe as she can be." He adds after Drax doesn't say anything else.

Drax crushes back down like a falling tree. Too bad no one shouted a warning to Peter – he has to bite his lower lip to avoid cursing like Kraglin after he loses a match of Aewropi. He coughs, and longs for the painkillers that are in the cabinet above the sink, about five meters from him.

They might as well been in the other side of the galaxy.

(And no, he wasn't being melodramatic. Not at all, seeing as his pride was being crushed, bit by bit. Literally, of course. Everything has got to be literal with Drax.)

 

"I like the baby." Drax sighs into his neck, sounding positively stoned. "I like holding her. And the way her cheeks feel against my fingers, like the coat of an hidaselahk after winter-time. I used to make them into gloves, they feel so nice against your palms when you weed out the fields."

"Great, Drax. That sounds great." Peter knows they saved the universe together, but he's currently pinned under a ridiculously overpowered alien whose decision-making-ability has been greatly compromised, and just compared the baby they have onboard to a thing he used to sewn party-hats from.

It can kind of stress a guy out.

A bit.

 

"I missed it so much. Having a baby."

"I'm going to get smashed," Peter mutters to himself under his breath, feeling embarrassed beyond possible belief. "Next time we reach a planet with a semi-breathable atmosphere."

The grip tightens. Peter thinks he sprained a tooth. Is that a thing? It must be a thing. Drax has just made it a thing.

"I'll never let anything smash you, or harm you in any way, Peter Quill. If you are smashed, you shall no longer make to be such a perfect fit between my arms."

Peter stands corrected, gulping.

 

Make that.

Stress a guy.

A lot.

 

                                                                                            

"Friend Quill," Drax starts in the middle of breakfast the following day. It's just them and the baby; Peter has been reluctant to start a conversation, testy and tired, while Drax seemed to mull over thoughts in his head. "I apologise for any distress I might have caused you in my intoxicated state."

"Don't worry about it," Peter shrugs it off as he colours his toast purple with a sweet-smelling spread. Drax nods and chews for a time, before spitting whatever-it-was out into a decorated shallow bowl. He then pours a small amount of warm liquid into the bowl, and mixes it all together.

(Peter has lived with The Ravagers for twenty years, and that's all he's going to say about it.)

Lynjabuen gurgles in what Peter personally dubbed her _FEED-ME-SEYMOUR_ gurgle. Drax picks up a tiny spoon and does just that, his eyes sparkling with joy. She only spits out about two-thirds of the meal, which – according to Drax – counts as success.

 

(If she's been at Yondu's, she would've been made to lick the floor clean. But she's a lucky little bugger, ain't she.)

 

"Though I admit I have no recollection from the previous night," Drax continues as if he hadn't stopped, one of his fingers clutched between Lynjabuen's tiny taloons, "I find the sleeping experience we shared was most beneficial for me. I hope it was also to your liking. Would you be opposed to sharing my bed tonight?"

Peter chokes on his Space-toast (with jam). That wouldn't have happened, he thinks, if he had gotten himself a freakin' omelette rather than that crappy excuse for a meal.

Drax pats on his back in an attempt to assist, pounding against his already-bruised ribs. Peter wriggles away, almost falling off his chair, and holds a hand out, palm forwards.

"I apologize," Drax steps back as Peter rides the last of the coughs out. "I sometimes forget how needlessly complicated and twisted other languages are. I only meant for us to sleep. I have no sexual intentions towards your person."

 

Peter starts a new coughing session, courtesy of Drax's helpful glass of water.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Lynjabuen staring at him, with her two front eyes, both pale and icy. Then she shrieks.

 

That night, under Drax's suffocating body heat, Peter asks his ribs for forgiveness.

 

                                                                                             

A month in, and the baby isn't dead yet.

By Peter's book, it means they're doing great.

 

Drax no longer goes Han-Solo-Parenting (Peter though it was a pretty cool pun; Drax asked if Peter deemed Han Solo as an individual maladjusted to parenthood); with Peter's help, he's getting his beauty sleep (Peter made sure not the say that one out loud), and actually Drax is the happiest Peter's seen him.

'Happy-Functional-Drax' and 'Sleep-Deprived-Drax' were two entirely different people.

Peter likes the first a whole lot better.

 

They take turns watching Lynjabuen – Peter makes a shift chart and hangs it above the main sink. Rocket doesn't agree to keep an eye on her without Groot by his side, which Peter is thankful for – because he doesn't want to see his ship blown to bits when the critter would inevitably shove one of Rocket's grenades into her mouth. Drax is tense in the few first days; but after he picks Lynjabuen from Groot, gurgling under a flowery crown, it seems he understands she is not in any imminent danger if Drax so much as blinks.

Since Drax's shut-eye has become an issue concerning them all, Peter tries to work out a solution.

Drax seems appalled by the idea of a crib, dubbing it an infant-holding-cell, and forces his own solution, accepted on all-but-Peter (nothing new).

Gamora and Rocket take upon themselves to lure Drax out as they dock planetside to shop for weapons of mass destruction or the likes. Groot also takes Drax out, for long hours from which they never returned with any purchases. Drax always seem far more relaxed after those.

(Peter tries to ask Rocket if he knows anything about it, but is appears Groot didn't tell even him. "Like I care," he snaps angrily at the random equipment he's messing with, pulling at the wires as if they were the heartstrings of his enemies. "He can go wherever he likes, with whoever he wants. The entire galaxy is his fucking pot now. Give it here, Quill." Peter hands Rocket the screwdriver, and wisely steps back.)

 

Last but not least, are the new sleeping arrangements. Peter Quill is now, officially, Drax The Destroyer's bedwarmer (or rather, the other way around).

 

Next to Peter's head, Lynjabuen liberally coats the pillow with herbal-scented-saliva; she's secured in place by one of Drax's hands.

("Are you crazy?! We'll crush her in our sleep!"

"A child needs to sleep with their parents." Drax says, frowning. "Haven't you?"

"No." Peter says, clipped, as memories flood in. "I have to –  I promised Rocket I'll help him with the thing, so –")

 

Then the words hit him like a ton of bricks, and he doesn't dare look to anywhere but the dark ceiling he can't really see with his crappy, inferior terran eyes.

 

("Yer brain's slower than a dying crippled bug, Boy.")

 

Because Drax used a plural form.

Drax said

 _Parents_.

                                                                                            

 

The other-other thing is, Peter is not very good at talking about _feelings_.

More so, Peter is actually pretty fucked-up in the social department, suffering loss at a young age, being abducted by aliens who turned out to be criminals and threatened to eat him if he didn't do his chores. And you can't quite see how fucked-up he is next to a grieving-vengeful-tattooed-alien, a furry-walking-anger-management-problem, Gamora (that's the only thing that'll cover it all) and a tree.

But he's pretty fucked-up compared to normal standards. He thinks so, anyway, because his 'normal' scale has been tossed into the trash about – forever ago.

 

Good thing Peter's still got his family. The other one, that is.

The Ravagers decide – not twenty years too late – that now is the time to be there for him. Or rather, for him to be there with them. Even if Peter is currently planetside with his crew, in the middle of haggling a bargain concerning the incubator's useless parts.

They sure don't disappoint when they beam Peter, Lynjabuen gnawing on his shirt – aboard their ship.

 

Drax's eyes are pale blue, Peter notes, as his friends fade from sight and the light turns too bright.

(There's a missed-out " _she has your eyes_ " joke, right there, out of his reach.)

 

                                                                                            

The circumstances seem awfully familiar. Of course, Peter spent most of his life on this ship. Another significant part of his life was spent with the same people now standing in front of him pointing a variety of weapons in his direction.

Only this time, he has a plus-one to worry about, a plus-one which can't beat those guys to a pulp. That sucks quite bad.

 

"Yondu, long time no see! How long was it –"

"Shut it, Boy." Yondu growls. " 'Dis the last ti –"

There's a gurgle (Peter dubbed that one as the _Silence, You Fools!_ gurgle.)

As expected, there's silence. If they're going to get out of this alive, Lynjabuen is going to grow up to most spoiled brat in the sector.

 

"What's that you have der, Boy?" Yondu asks, teeth slightly bared. Peter knows this expression, and knows it doesn't mean anything good.

"Nothing!" he yelps. "Just, just  – some –"

Displeased with the noise, Lynjabuen starts fidgeting out of her blanket. All of Yondu's men groan and cover their ears, distressed, starting to spew profanities a light-year-a-minute.

"The fuck is yer problem?!" Yondu turns towards them, annoyed by their interruption.

"Ca- Captain!" one man groans. "Make it – UGH –"

"Smash its fucking head!" Another growls, and Peter quickly retreats, pressing himself against the familiar wall, wishing more than anything for a full-body-mini-armor, complete with an enforced helmet.

"You dare threwin' orders at yer Captain, Sqwekalyjur?" Yondu practically roars. "Get outta here, you fuckin' wet-knees pansies! Before I'll pierce your worthless hides like the ear of a Gworajouian banker!"

The men scramble to obey and ease their aching ears. Kraglin keeps his gun trained on Peter, but since his finger not even on the trigger, Peter isn't too worried.

 

Yondu stares.

Peter waits for the mockery, can almost hear it. "Haven't learnt squat, have you –", variations of "how many times have I told you to –", "wish I'd knocked you in da head more, den you woul'nt go knockin' people up –" and lots of angry, jibing " _Boy"-s._

****

The universe flips him the bird.

 

Yondu's eyes grow wider and wider with each step he takes forward. He stops in front of Peter, holding out his hands.

Peter cradles Lynjabuen closer.

"Gi'ver here, Boy," Yondu says, his tone dangerously soft.

"Yondu –" Peter tries to plead, but Yondu's whistle is sharp – and the tip of his arrow, hovering in front of Peter's forehead – is even sharper.

Lynjabuen is quiet as Yondu holds her, at least in the frequencies Peter can tap into. Yondu grimaces as he traces a finger across her fuzzy, plump cheek.

 

"Ain't never been a grandpa before," Yondu says. "C'mere, Kraglin. Whatcha 'er name, Boy?"

"Lynjabuen." Peter's sure someone else answered, because he's still in some bizarre alternate reality at the moment. He's seen this before, on Star Trek, many years ago.

Yondu snorts. "Where in Mackeio's armpit have you 'eard dat name?"

Peter shrugs. Something (maybe his rusty, dusty common-sense) tells him Gamora wouldn't appreciate him going around, kissing and telling.

Yondu whistles again, and the arrow twirls back into its shaft. Lynjabuen gurgles a yet-to-be-named-gurgle, then emits an exact imitation of the whistle. Peter thinks Yondu's face is about to split into two.

Kraglin licks his own thumb and presses it against Lynjabuen's delicate nose. She squeals. "Your dad's an idiot, but you're a cute little bugger, Lynjabuen," he grudgingly admits as her talons shallowly scrap his fingers.

"'eard dat, _mossy pebble_?" Yondu guffaws. "Boy, you better make a better excuse to tell 'er in the future, 'cause when she'll come fer ya, I'll be taking 'er side."

"I'll think of something." Peter says, but Yondu doesn't seem to hear him.

"Betcha ya ain't like that Boy at all, are ya, trinket? Y'know, when your daddy was jus' 'bout yer age –" Peter can only look at Mirror-Yondu. He has a beard – of a sort – so it makes sense. Something went wrong while they beamed Peter up.

Mirror-Yondu is holding the baby as if she's more precious than billions-units-worth-piece of cargo, whistling cheery tunes, Kraglin leaning way into his personal space.

 

Jim Kirk must've been the bravest man alive, because Mirror-verses are just plain terrifying

 

                                                                                            

 

Peter had a déjà vu, once. It was after drinking a striped rainbow cocktail. Three days later he woke up butt naked with a weird looking tattoo on his toe and no recollection of how he got there.

He gets to experience it once more as something crashes into the ship. Loudly. Peter is washed with a sense of foreboding as the ship's speakers cackle to life.

 

"This message is addressed to Yondu Utunda, and the rest of his so-called-Ravagers, the _scum_ he calls his crew."

At the sound of Drax's voice Lynjabuen flaps her limbs around excitedly, chittering in Yondu's arms.

"Surrender Peter Quill and the infant now, and your death shall be quick and merciful. Refuse, and I will make your worst nightmares seem like the sweetest, most pleasent dreams. I will board the ship to tear up your eyes and feed them to you, piece by piece, as your blood drains from your worthless bodies into the hollow eye-sockets of your comrades –"

Drax continues his graphic threats for a while.

"Quite a poet ya got yerself, using all sorts of big fancy words, ain't he?" Yondu quirks an eyebrow at Peter. "What, he some humanoid spellchecker?"

 

" – you have thirty seconds to decide upon your fate. Think quickly."

 

By the time Drax is done with his threats, Peter and the rest strolled to the command bridge. He sighs before pressing the button.

"Drax, I'm fine."

"Peter? – and –"

"Lynjabuen is fine." She squeals as Drax's face appear on the screen, uncomfortably large and hostile. "We both are."

"Hey, guys." Peter takes in his crew. There's a small cut on Gamora's forhead. Groot is missing half of his arm. The tips of Rocket's fur seem singed. "We're all good here. Yondu and the guys – we were catching up. Just a surprise visit, that's all there is to it."

No one seems convinced.

Peter convinces them, anyhow.

                                                                                            

"I bet I'll be seeing you soon, ain't that so, Boy? Both of you."

"Sure, Yondu." Peter lies through his teeth as Yondu hand the baby over, just outside of the transportation platform.

Yondu nods and pokes Lynjabuen's nose gently. "Shame to let such a talent go to a waste. You know how I hate seeing things go to waste, don't I, Kraglin?"

"Despises it, Sir." Kraglin bares his teeth towards Peter in a grin, protracting three thin needle-like fangs from his lower jaw. The last time Peter had seen those teeth, he'd also seen someone's fingers melting off his hands like they're made out of wax (they weren't).

"Are you doing anything next month?" he manages to squeak out. 

"Don't recall so. Kraglin?"

"I think we'll be meeting with The Guardians of the Galaxy, on Akejifuojim, where they invited the entire crew for dinner for making them pull double shifts for that accident they 'ad with our ship, the thousands-worth-of-units one. Ain't that so, Captain?"

"Right, right. Thanks for dat, Boy."

"No problem." Peter answers, and goes about plotting their fututristic-escape as his shirt turns damp with drool.

 

                                                                                            

 "I was very worried about you, Peter Quill." Drax tells Peter's shoulder, which is maybe kind of the reason Peter was reluctant to get into bed.

"It sure sounded so. You are very creative in your threats."

"Thank you." Drax beams at him. "You are very attractive."

"… What?"

"I thought we were exchanging compliments with each other? Is it not a terran costume, when one party comments a favorable trait, and the other party offers their thanks and a positive comment of equal measure?"

"You said you – and  I quote you here – _had no sexual intentions_ towards my person!"

"You are a very confusing individual, Peter Quill." Drax studies him, looking genuinely perplexed, as if _Peter_ is the one not making any sense.

"However, your insufficient physical strength and obvious flaws – even your unpleasant whiskers – mean less to me than your skills as a parent."

"My – what skills?!"

"You found a child in distress and rescued it, when it would've surely perished if not for you. You kept the child, even as you feigned reluctance and an uncaring act," Drax continues counting his randomly-assembled-arguments off. "You cared for me so I could provide better care for us all. You tell Lynjabuen bewitching tales about far-off worlds ("Are you talking about Krypton? Please tell me you're not talking about Krypton-") and make her happy. You are the first to have made her laugh."

Peter's throat feels kind of tight. Dry, too. Stupid Drax-furnace.

"Laugh?"

"In the kitchen, as you were struggling to process your meal. I know it must be difficult, with your blunt, puny teeth –"

"You sure know how to make a guy feel special."

"You are also an excellent bed companion." Drax adds helpfully, settling more comfortably on the mattress.

"And attractive."

"An excellent, attractive bed companion." Drax agrees, then presses his lips lightly to Peter's temple. "Good night, Peter Quill."

 

Peter doesn't sleep that night.

... until he wakes up to the sound of Lynjabuen whining her lungs out.

Drax shifts, nudging her towards him until she is cradled between the two of them, Peter pressed against his side. Drax settles a heavy arm around Peter's shoulders and pulls him close, nose buried into Peter's hair. 

 

"She's taking my last name." Peter tells the ceiling as he runs his fingers through the short plumage on the top of Lynjabuen's head, attempting to lull her back to sleep.

"It is too late for one of your bothersome metaphors." Drax's eyes are still closed shut. "She already has a fine name, as Gamora suggested. You have not offered a suitable alternative when you were given the chance to do so."

"– and I'm taking that as a 'yes'."

                                                                                         

  

                                                                                          

_you can't always get what you want_

_but if you try sometime you find_

_you get what you need_

_(you get what you need - yeah, oh baby)_

 


	2. Epilogue

Dreams do come true, Peter thinks, some thirty years later.

There's a feast held to honour The Guardians of the Galaxy for their part in saving Earth from complete and utter annihilation, and Peter's the guest of honour.

 

"That took a while." Peter grins at a baffled waiter.

Peter takes the knife and fork and cuts the omelette carefully, letting the cheese stretch at he pulls a piece away, savoring the way the steams from the dish soak his nostrils with fragrance of memories and nostalgia.

He takes a bite.

 

" _That's_ what you've been driving Dad crazy about all this time?" a shrill, thin voice grumbles to his right. "It's _disgusting._ "

Swallowing, Peter looks over at Lynjabuen – now a bulky, feathered humanoid three and a half heads taller than him (but with just about the same amount of tact). 

 

"Yeah," he smiles as he cuts himself another piece.

"It's not that good."

**Author's Note:**

> I named things by key-smashing my keyboard and adding vowels in between. I think it worked out pretty well. Also, I got it that in this fandom there are two approaches regarding Yondu's actions towards Peter - the "awful-abusive-uncaring-space-pirate-scum" one and the "secretly-coddling-and-loving-in-his-own-way" one. I'm on that last team.
> 
> All feedback is always much appreciated :)


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